


And through the lithic world

by fraisemilk



Series: In perpetuum diemque unum [1]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Joui War, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sakamoto does that on a whim; continues picking up rocks on his way home. Soon most of the stones of the path are gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And through the lithic world

A rock. On the path, a big, grey rock. It isn’t round nor is it shiny; the reflection of the sun turns dull on its rough surface. It catches his eyes, though. He extends a hand in the air, sees it approach the stone like it isn’t his, like the hand has suddenly, merrily gained a life on its own. The hand takes hold of the shapeless dream of an image.   
When he feels the cold mass of the stone between his fingers, the hand is his, once again.

He does that on a whim; continues picking up rocks on his way home. Soon most of the stones of the path are gone.

They roll on his desk; they tumble in his pockets. He finds one under his pillow – it is the color of zaffre, and it looks almost imperious, so he puts it like an emperor on his shelf. They are uneven, these stones. Some, rarely, are as round as a marble. They are most often ugly, and grey, but he takes hold of these irregular rocks, lets them roll in his right palm then on his left, and there they find a new shine in his eyes. In his hands, from shapeless gravel they become beautiful emeralds.  

 

* * *

 

You don’t know why you go to war; is it for faraway ideals, for your family’s honor? You might find glory in the rush and the clash of giant bodies. You might also find death, whispers to you a young woman. You kiss her. She kisses back. Death seems so far. Its distant embrace too remote for you to even be able to recognize it.

At some point, you understand – to your amusement – that death was never truly distant. Somehow, one day when you were an infant still unaware of his own body, it slid between your fingers, rolled there like a fluid rock, to pierce the skin of your wrist and hide inside of it, waiting.

On some days your laughter unravels – like the sound of the wind in abandoned villages, it feels weird, unusually rough; you laugh and your laughter isn’t your laughter. It’s the laughter of a dirty man with dirty hands; dirt and blood covering your body, red thick carnation from the tip of your fingers to the tip of your tongue. It’s the laughter of a loser: one friend, two friends… until you can’t count them anymore, the dead, until you forget the names, and forever remember the faces.

What makes you stay, then? It’s Katsura and his serious-faced faith. It’s Takasugi, who has a deceivably calm air until his anger is triggered. It’s also Gintoki, who has no faith and no anger, no drunken fervor, and who acts as if the battlefield were his home. Perhaps he shines the brightest; perhaps he is the dullest stone on this battlefield. Gintoki and his unbalanced presence blind you with incomprehension. Why is  _he_ there? Ideals? Honor? Glory? And there in the question concerning another, a question meant for you. Why did you go to war, and why did you stay?

 

* * *

 

No answer comes; you never know why you went to war - was it for Katsura’s unyielding ideals, for the samurais’ honor? You did not find glory in the rush and the clash of giant bodies. You found death, where you hadn’t thought you’d find it, under the skin of your wrist and in the kiss of a young woman and the trepidations of your young scared heart. You found death and fear and three odd fighters there in the middle of a chaotic mess that was never yours to begin with. You were such a child, back then. And the child’s laughter found a new quality, like gravel parched your throat – the sound of rolling stones and of an imperious yellow stone now gives to mirth a new tone.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps this is not the only change he finds – surely he also discovers that the skin of his hands has gotten rougher, and that loud noises surprise his heart like thunder. He certainly sees more things, too. Hunger and misery, yet also, at the same moment, the little gestures of love, the tenderness of parents; the little twist of a smile Gintoki gives him when he tells him he wants to leave.

When he departs he looks at the ravaged land of a battlefield a last, final time, and bends down to pick up a rock. The rock is grey, and rough, and angular. It isn’t beautiful. It does not turns into an emerald when he holds it close. Some things won’t change, he thinks. Some things do not have to change.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sakamoto Week - Day 1: Growing up and war.  
> When I was little, I used to pick up a rock whenever I left a place, to remember it, even briefly. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are lovely !


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